


Swan Dive

by hauntedd



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Clones, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedd/pseuds/hauntedd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth, before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swan Dive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singsongsung](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/gifts).



The first day at the Academy, Beth gets there thirty minutes early, five alarms, all spaced fifteen minutes apart, tend to do that, but she knows it’s all part of her plan. She’d always wanted this, despite her mother’s wishes, to follow in her dad’s footsteps—to serve and _protect_ -—and she is going to be the best.

It’s all that’s she can do to honor the legacy of a ~~man~~ hero she can barely remember, but no one will let her forget.

Mike Childs killed in the line of duty when she’s six. Local hero, personal ghost. And although her mom can’t— _won’t_ —understand her need to do this, _be here_ , it gets Beth closer to him in a way that photos and old stories can’t manage.

And she could be good at this. Fuck, she’s been practically groomed for it, hall monitor, A student, all conference and leading scorer on her college soccer team, captain of the cross-country team—she’s used to being a leader, following rules and enforcing them. 

With a sigh, she pushes the door open in an effort to settle her nerves, and shoves right into someone.

Well, not just anyone, from the looks of his uniform, she’s just shoved her way into her new boss. _Shit_.

He turns toward her, eyes widening as he stares at her face. Great, she’s going to get it now—probably cleaning out the barracks for the next few weeks. Awesome.

“You. Why the hell are you here?“

Well. This is encouraging.

“Excuse me?” Beth looks at the Captain with wide eyes and a furrowed brow. Sure she just bumped into him, and yeah she looks young, something she tries to mask with J. Crew ensembles and profanity, but this is something else.

“I just picked you up for assault downtown, the fuck are you doing—“

“I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” Beth starts. Must be some stupid hazing ritual. She’s a chick in a man’s world and while she’s always been one of the boys, she’s got to prove it every time. 

He’s not buying it. _Shit. Shit. Shit._.

“I do have a mean side tackle, though,” she smirks and his glare softens somewhat. Progress. “Sorry about that. I’m Beth—Beth Childs.”

He chuckles, a look of disbelief on his face. “Shit, you’re Mikey’s girl, eh? I heard you were in this class.”

“Yeah, I’m Mike’s daughter. Law enforcement just runs in the family,” she answers, still off kilter. 

Well, at least he’s not looking at her with thinly veiled hatred anymore—but really? Assault? That’s a new one, though she’s sure the girls from soccer would think it was a long time coming—she’s always been scrappy. It’s not the first time she’s been mistaken for someone else, though. One of her college teammates, Jess from Scarborough, thought she looked a bit like some girl—Ali or whatever from high school—but that was common-ish. She had a pretty bland face, easy to blend in to a crowd.

Something that could be useful on the force, she thinks.

He looks at her again, scrutinizing every feature on her face and Beth inhales sharply, trying to stay calm. “Shit. I swear I picked up some street punk that looks just like you down at Bobby’s Bar.”

“Not my kind of place,” she laughs it off. Maybe this will get her in his good graces—getting to the top isn’t all about high marks, after all. “I like my beer with football, not a side of tetanus.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Childs.”

###

They call her in for some larceny case—couple of thugs, one, male, mid-twenties, Hispanic, the other mid-twenties, white, female with blue hair and eyeliner—and she rolls her eyes when her partner hands her the case file.

“Art, really with this Bonnie and Clyde bullshit?”

“Don’t blame me, I had couples counseling tonight,” Art sighs, flopping down in the chair next to her.

“Yeah. Because you’re never looking for an excuse out of that, are ya, dipshit?”

“I got enough women with issues in my life. So cut the shit—your team isn’t playing tonight, so it’s not like you had plans.”

“And if I did?”

“We don’t bring that shit—“

“In here, yeah. Got it,” Beth finishes for him as she texts Paul an apology. It’s their anniversary and instead of spending it with him, she’s spending it with Art and DeAngelis, who is trying like hell to ride third on this thing.

Great.

“Well aren’t you two a pair of miserable fucks,” Angie remarks as she marches over, positively elated to be off the desk after a month on the bench due to some brutality complaints. She always takes her shit way too seriously. “Where are you supposed to be tonight?”

“Anniversary.”

“Family thing.” Art replies. Beth bites her tongue—no one else knows that Art is about to leave Melody, or the reasons why. If it weren’t for Art’s son, Devon, he’d have left her a long time ago. Art says that seeing Devon every night is worth the lies and the cheating.

Beth thinks he is an idiot and the two of them would be better without Mel around to fuck shit up. But she knows when to hold her tongue.

_Sometimes._

“Well, I got nothing but time. So what’s so important you’re stuck with me and the night shift?”

Beth sighs and hands Angie the case file with an apologetic look toward Art. It’s not worth listening to her wheedle for another hour when both of them know they’re going to have to babysit DeAngelis eventually, anyway.

“Hardcastle thinks they’re involved in that string of larcenies—“

“Hey Beth, you look at this blue-haired freak show?”

Angie always had a way with words when she was interrupting someone.

“Yeah, I read the file, why?”

“She looks kinda like your low-rent twin.” Angie smirks, waving the picture in Beth’s face. “Got any Manic Panic we need to know about, Childs?”

“Cut the shit Angie,” Art scowls as he snatches it from the older woman. He scrutinizes the picture and passing it over to Beth, shaking his head. “That woman looks nothing like Beth.”

“Yeah Ang, get it together. I only use Kool Aid for my bad dye jobs,” Beth smirks and Angie chuckles. “Go check on the prints so we can get out of here, would ya?”

Beth waits a second until Angie is out of range and turns to Art, frowning. “Sorry, Art. She wasn’t going to let up otherwise.”

“I know—“

“At least this way we can make her do our paperwork.” Beth grins and Art rolls his eyes while trying not to laugh. “It’s not the first time someone has mistaken me for a criminal, you know.”

“Oh yeah? Got any priors we need to know about?”

“No, I just—the first day at the academy, Parker said I looked like some girl he’d picked up for assault downtown,” Beth admits, not really sure where she’s going with this line of thought. “You don’t think—“

“No, Beth. I know all white girls are supposed to look alike, but—“

“Gee thanks, dipshit. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

Art rolls his eyes and Beth hides a grin. She likes Art well enough, he has her back, she has his, and they know how to tease each other like siblings might. 

“Turns out we have nothing on your evil twin. You’ll have to postpone the family reunion."

“Damn, I was looking forward to surprising Paul’s mom at Christmas,” Beth grins and reaches for the file. “Who is it?”

“Victor Schmidt.” Angie shrugs and waves her hands dismissively as she shows them the picture. Hispanic and _definitely_ not her type. “Blue hair; maybe she wore gloves—either way he skipped town about a month ago and has three other outstanding warrants. Hardcastle’s just going to have to add this one to the list.”

“Looks like we found our guy—Ang you want to file it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Angie agrees before she realizes what she’s signed herself up for—at least another hour at the station, as the warrant would have to be filed in multiple states and municipalities. Beth smirks to herself as she follows Art out, making note of Schmidt and vowing to look into it.

###

She’s on desk duty at the station, Beth’s behind on her paperwork and there’s no time like the present to catch up on it. In truth, she’d saved it all up for today; they had the meeting with the obstetrician this morning and now all Beth and Paul can do is wait.

Beth hates waiting.

The phone rings and Beth jumps at the sound. It’s probably Paul—she doesn’t have any outstanding cases or anything and she picks it up with a sigh. He’s always doing this, calling to check up on her after something stressful. At first, she’d appreciated it, but now it feels a little like he’s hovering.

“Yeah?” Beth starts, putting the phone on speaker. No one is here except Raj—there was some parade going on and a bunch of the guys were out getting overtime. Art’s on vacation, Angie’s over at some autopsy— _freak_ —so no need to put the grimy thing up to her ear.

“Hello. Is this Detective Childs?”

Female. German, probably. Or some broad with a really bad cold. Either way, definitely not Paul unless it’s a prank and if it is—

“Yep, that’s me. Who’s asking?”

“I can’t tell you. Not on speaker phone.”

Of fucking course she can’t. Whatever, she can play along with this for now and plot her revenge later. At least it’s not the fucking doctor’s office.

“Okay, you’re off speaker. Who is this?”

“Long story.” The German answers and Beth rolls her eyes so hard she can imagine that this chick sees it through the phone. “You must call me on a… a… disposable phone.”

“I had to take you off of speaker for this?”

“Yes. It is… _scheiße_ ,” the German begins, stopping in an effort to find the words. Beth mentally applauds the effort and attempt at authenticity. Whichever one of Paul’s friends got conned into doing this was getting _into it_ clichés, foreign swear words and all. Hell, this was almost as good as the time she and Jess pranked the rugby team into thinking that they owed a Russian pimp five hundred dollars for services rendered.

That was fucking _legendary_.

“It is a matter of life and death, Detective.”

Of course it is, of course.

“A matter of life and death, huh?” Beth asks, casting an annoyed glance at the pile of paperwork that isn’t getting any smaller. She hits a button on the phone and looks at the number on display—international, beginning with +49. 

Has to be a coworker, they’re the only ones who’d know how to mask a number that way.

“A matter of life and death and you call from Europe? What? Did your visa application get denied?” Beth glances around the station and catches Raj out of the corner of her eye. Unless— _shit_ , had Paul involved Raj in this too? Or was this his way of flirting? Crap.

“I am serious,” the German stresses and Beth huffs out an annoyed sigh and makes a mental note to investigate the punk who was doing this further.

“Sure ya are. How much is an international burner going to set me back, eh?”

“ _Please_ —“

With an irritated glance at the clock, Beth decides enough is enough. “So which one of Paul’s buddies is this?” 

“Excuse me?”

“This his way of getting back at me? All because I decided the best way to make him do his own damn laundry was to bundle mismatched socks?”

The phone picks up some traffic in the background and Beth gets more irritated by the silence. She considers hanging up right then, but then the German coughs into the phone and Beth removes her hand from the disconnect button.

“This is no joke. They’re… they’re killing us.”

Oh for Christ’s sake. Now she had to listen to this to determine if there was an actual threat, police protocol and all that bullshit.

“Who. Who is killing you?”

“Not on this line,” the German insists and Beth cheers quietly, pumping her fist into the air for effect. If there were an actual threat, there wouldn’t be all this secrecy and her hang up is now, once again, justified.

“Right, right—well, look—as fun as this has been, I’m going to go solve real crimes now. Call me again and I’ll prosecute you for falsifying a report,” Beth snaps and hangs up the phone with a determined slam.

She casts one look at the stack of unfiled petty theft files and smirks. Paperwork can wait. Revenge, however… revenge waits for no one. With a grin, and the fertility test results long forgotten, Beth begins a list of both Paul and Raj’s known associates and ways to best get her vengeance for this massive waste of her time.

###

The results came three days ago and Beth’s been avoiding their apartment ever since. Paul’s being nice about it, but his kindness is suffocating when all she wants to do is cry and mourn children that she’ll never have. If he sees her there, bawling over stupid shit, he’ll remind her _again_ that they can adopt.

She doesn’t want to adopt. Hell, she didn’t want kids until Paul kept talking about family and marriage and all the shit that comes along with it. Now with her mother dead and her womb unable to carry children to term, Beth isn’t sure what she wants, other than to be normal for once in her fucking life.

The station is _normal_. 

Her job is _normal_.

So she finds herself here, late at night, instead of in bed with Paul, catching up on paperwork and drinking coffee like water. Beth sees an envelope, padded, with a return address to some place in Germany.

“So much for normalcy,” Beth mutters as she rips open the package and pours the contents over her desk, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that she’s the only one around.

A burner, ugly, _pink_ , and outdated, along with a few copies of passports and a newspaper clippings slip out. Beth eyes the contents skeptically, thumbing the post-it note on top of the pile. 

_Since you do not call me, here is some proof. Katja._

Starting with the news articles, Beth thumbs through them all with a trace of interest. Most of them are stupid news clippings about awards and things, nothing she cares about, along with some science research about cloning. However, there are a number of stories about a Russian, Svetlana Oshenko, who was murdered with a single bullet to the head while vacationing in the Ukraine. 

Interesting.

The murder is still unsolved a year later. Also, interesting, and definitely not normal—Svetlana looks like Beth with a pixie cut. And she’s not the only one who looks like her, in fact. Well, shit.

Sighing, Beth thumbs through a bunch of photocopied passports, noting all the names and locations of her supposed doppelgängers.

Katja Obinger. German. Aryanna Giordano. Italian. Janika Zingler. Austrian. Danielle Fournier. French.

The photographs look real enough, her face reflected back from a funhouse mirror. Versions of herself from lives she’s never lived and before she knows it, Beth is typing names into a computer, trying to find more information.

The ugly pink phone rings and Beth jumps and glances at the screen she’s opened, somewhat shocked that she’s got the transcontinental database without thinking. She could get _fired_ for this.

Fuck.

“This is Beth,” there’s no use in lying. The phone was sent to her attention, ugly pink burner that it is— _pink_ , really? What’s next? Cloned tampons? 

“Do you believe me now, Detective?” the woman on the other end of the line asks, her accent clipped and Beth knows exactly whom she’s speaking with. Katja.

“No,” Beth answers with much more certainty than she feels. Maybe there’s something to this, _maybe_ , but it’s a long shot at best and Beth Childs doesn’t take the long shot.

She waits for hard evidence.

“You should.”

“I should believe what, exactly? You haven’t made that part clear,” Beth spits, wondering where the hell this is even going. This prank has gone on long enough and it can’t keep going on like this. “All I see are some bitches with my face, and one of them is dead.”

“We are _clones_ , Beth.”

Fucking hell. She could just picture Paul or Raj on mute laughing their heads off, imagining her reaction. Of all the fucking dumb things that could come out of this person’s mouth they come up with _clones_? 

Clones.

“Clones, right,” Beth pauses and she can physically feel her eyes roll hard enough they could pop out of her head. She won’t give those idiots the benefit of her flipping the fuck out on the phone. Because that just makes it too easy. 

If it’s Paul, Lax-A-Day in the protein powder is becoming a more intriguing option by the minute. If it’s Raj, time to throw some of vitamin _shit_ on his lunch. 

This is _war_.

Clones. Jesus Christ.

“You sure it’s not just Photoshop and a bad haircut?”

“No. You must stop this. I came to you first because you are detective. You can help.”

“Help, how? You got my address, so you know I’m not local,” Beth snaps, irritated.

“There’s a woman, one of us we think, who is killing us off,” the Germ— _Katja_ answers and it’s not much of an explanation. Even if were possible and human cloning was a thing, all these other Beths are in _Europe_. Katja or whatever she is calling herself keeps talking and Beth is only half listening, imagining the millions of ways the idiot who came up with this idea is going to blow up their bathroom.

“That is how this began, the mystery. I saw a report about a woman, Svetlana Oshenko. Russian, with my face— _our_ face. I looked into it. In vitro, all of us.”

Beth’s silent for a moment—she knows she’s a test tube baby. Hell, she joked about it enough with her mom that _everyone_ knows that. But she has her mom’s eyes, her dad’s hair. This is bullshit. It _has_ to be.

Get it together Childs.

“Please.” There’s a beat, Katja coughs slightly on the other end of the line and Beth rolls her eyes at the obvious ploy. “You are a detective. Get to the bottom of this before we are all dead.”

The dial tone echoes in her ear as Katja hangs up and Beth rakes a hand through her hair, pulling at the ends and groaning in frustration. Whomever they got to pull this off is fucking _good_.

In vitro children. There were cases of sperm getting mixed up, so while the clone theory is totally just not even a thing, maybe super sperm was? It certainly made more sense than _clones_.

But super sperm totally wasn’t a thing. _Was it?_ Beth hadn’t really paid attention in biology, just enough to pass and get through. She knows the basics, wear gloves on a crime scene or you might get AIDS and taint the evidence. You know; the important stuff.

“Fuck it,” Beth sighs, her curiosity getting the better of her and she loads her id picture into the search. If they come and audit her computer, and Raj isn’t behind this mess, she can flirt her way out of it, probably. Raj is always extra nice to her whenever word got out that Paul was away on business.

As if she’d ever shit where she eats.

The results populate and Beth’s eyes grow wide at the list of names and photographs on screen. There’s bangs Beth; dreads Beth; grungy Beth— _with a flag for a criminal record, awesome_ ; butch, or possibly transgender, Beth—the picture is old and grainy— _also with a record and no known address since 2011, great_ ; teacher Beth; earnest Beth; Beth; Beth; Beth. 

“Shit.”

The faces stare back at her mockingly and Beth gets out a pen, biting her lip as she forces herself not to panic. Not now, not _here_. Rule number one. You don’t bring your personal shit in _here_. 

They are all the same age, though. Born within a month of one another in 1984. Well, shit. If this is a fucking prank, Raj is totally behind it.

Alison Hendrix, Scarborough.

“Local,” Beth mutters to herself as she writes down the name. “And also married with kids.”

Cosima Niehaus, San Francisco. 

“PhD student in biology, not a pot head. Weird,” Beth comments and stars her name. If this turns out to be true, dreadlocked Beth could be useful.

Antoinette Sawicki, Cincinnati. 

“May be going by the name Tony and about ten outstanding warrants. Probably not into cops,” Beth sighs and clicks the next result. 

Jennifer Fitzsimmons, Sheldon. 

“Teacher from Iowa. Probably tips cows for fun—Next!” 

Nadia Stasky, Pawnee. 

“Doctor,” Beth mutters, starring her name as well. Doctor Beth and Science Beth are the most promising contacts. “And according to the US Department of State, about to leave for Rwanda. So much for that idea.”

Sarah Manning, Toronto. 

Beth underlines Sarah’s name twice and reads her priors. “Assault, fraud—well, suddenly that comment on my first day makes sense,” she sighs and reads the notes. _Known associates: Victor Schmidt._ “At least I can justify why I’m looking for her, I guess.”

Frowning, she closes the program before examining any additional results even though there’re three more pages to go—if she’s going to prove this thing is a prank she might as well go local and get it done quickly. Then she can focus on her revenge.

###

Beth sits in her Jaguar, drinking a large double-double from Timmy’s to calm her nerves. She knows caffeine is supposed to be a stimulant, but with all the coffee she drinks it’s like water running through her and it does more to relax her than anything else. 

“Get it together, Childs,” Beth snaps at herself. This whole thing is fucking stupid and yet a part of her still wants to get to the bottom of it. If for nothing else than to confirm, once and for all, that she’s being punked.

Pursing her lips, she chugs the rest of her drink and exits the car, marching up to the front door of the home before she can think better of it. 

“Hello,” a woman, who certainly does not have her face _their face_ answers the door and Beth’s resolve weakens when she notices that the Irish woman doesn’t look shocked or stunned at all.

Well, shit.

“Hi—I’m looking for Sarah Manning,” Beth begins, falling over her words and cringing at how nervous she sounds despite the hours of rehearsing in front of her mirror.

“Are ya now?”

“Yes—I’m Detective Elizabeth Childs and—“

“What’s she done this time?”

“Ma’am,” Beth begins, stunned. So this woman _does_ know Sarah, and yet— _Fuck_.

Beth cannot _believe_ she fell for this. Thank god she went for the one who was tied to a suspect so she can talk her way out of this mess.

“Siobhan. Siobhan Saddler.” The older woman clarifies her Irish lit dancing over the words, as she regards Beth skeptically. 

“Fine. Okay, Siobhan, I really need to talk to Sarah—“

“Really? Well, that makes two of us, Detective. As Sarah hasn’t been ‘round in months now—“

“Do you know where I might find her? It’s important that I speak with her,” Beth asks, shifting her weight from side to side. It’s a habit she’s had ever since she was a kid, when things get awkward and she isn’t sure of her next move.

To be fair, what the fuck was she even going to say if Sarah were here? _Hey, so we share the same face and shit—want to tell me where I can find your douchebag boyfriend?_

“You don’t appear to have a warrant,” well, this is going south quickly. Maybe this is a mistake, listening to Katja, the facial recognition software, the dead doppelgänger; it’s all a mistake. It _has_ to be, because Beth _knows_ that Sarah Manning, whomever she is, was raised by Siobhan Saddler.

However, Siobhan’s not surprised at all to see a woman with Sarah’s face at her door. Even if she’d been in on it— _unlikely, Siobhan was involved in the PRA and not shady scientific research according to google, anyway_ —Siobhan’s face would have betrayed her if this were true.

The little German skank and everyone involved were to _pay_. Raj, for sure, since he’d have _had_ to have been in on it. Rigging a police computer? Really? That little shit would be filing her paperwork for a _year_ for this.

“I uh—I have some questions about her involvement with a Mr. Schmidt. Victor Schmidt—“

“Vic? Is that it, then? She leaves her—“

There’s a pause, as if Siobhan is about to say something important and thinks better of it. Beth’s eyes widen at the hitch in her voice before she can stop herself and before she can respond the moment is lost and Siobhan’s eyes narrow once more as they bore into her.

“If I bloody well knew where she was, do you think I’d tell you?” It’s meant to be biting, Beth knows, but the way that Siobhan delivers it lessens the blow slightly. It seems unintentional, but she files it away as something to perhaps look into later. “Sarah may be wild, but she’s still mine.”

“Uh—“

Something softens in Siobhan’s gaze, as if she can read Beth’s disappointment plainly on her face. She’d thought she was good at hiding her emotions better than this, but ever since this charade began, she was slipping. 

“Sarah will turn up eventually. But only when she wants to be found,” Siobhan tells her with a sigh, as if it’s not the first time this woman has skipped town.

“Good day, Detective Childs.”

###

The pink burner keeps ringing and Beth doesn’t answer. Beth knows she should just turn the damn thing off and be done with this stupidity, but revenge drives her when nothing else will. Maybe that was the point, after all, but for all her investigation into whoever started this prank she hasn’t come up with a solid lead.

She’s busy with softball and Paul and work and ignoring that everything is going to go to shit soon enough. Beth starts running more often, her feet pounding the pavement in a rhythm that blocks out the chaos that is taking over her life.

Her phone rings—her _real_ phone and she jumps out of her chair. _Focus, Beth, this prank is getting ridiculous._

“Detective Childs,” Beth says automatically and recoils when she hears the voice on the other end of the phone. Shit, between her infertility and her obsession with this bullshit clone thing she’s losing it—she knows it’s starting to affect her relationship with Paul.

The sooner she gets a handle on this the better.

“Hey—you okay?”

Shit. 

“Yeah, Paul, why?”

“You know, ever since the results came back.”

“I’m _fine_ Paul. Really, I don’t want to talk about it.” She doesn’t. Really, doesn’t.

“Okay,” Paul drawls, clearly not believing her. Fine, time to nut up and get this shit out in the open.

“Look,” Beth sighs. She is kind of being a bitch—well, but then again, what else is she supposed to be when a doctor looks you dead in the eye and says you will never be a mom. Well, that’s not fair. Maybe if her mother was alive she could help her through it—Mom had a rough time, maybe it’s genetic. “I just—I mean, what am I supposed to say here, Paul? I’m sorry that I’m barren? I’m not sorry. I’m sad. My parents are dead and I don’t speak to my aunt because she’s an idiot and it’s not like I have any siblings. So, yeah, it sucks.”

“Beth—“

“And if you want to like leave or whatever because of it, that’s fine. I’ll understand. You’re the one who wants kids. Not me. My dad was a cop, he _died_. It’s not like I was the one pushing it.”

There. She said it. Everything she is afraid of, truly afraid of is out in the open. He’d been weird ever since the results came in and it’s like he’s distancing himself from her. So now the ball is in his fucking court.

“What? No. I don’t want to leave you. I love you, Beth.” Paul says the words that she wants, no needs, to hear, but she’s too good at this. It’s flat and not impassioned. But Paul isn’t really an emotional guy—he’s too much of an army brat and too American for that—however she can read between the lines.

He doesn’t love her. He just doesn’t want to leave. 

And that makes it worse.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Sorry. I mean, of course I love you, Paul. Sorry. Stressful day. We’re working on this case—the Sun Jewelry Heist—and my brain is fried.”

“I thought you liked the tough ones.”

“Oh, I do. You must like them too, since you stay with my crazy ass.” She’s being an idiot. This is what she does she just assumes the worst in people. Maybe he does love her, maybe it’s all in her head.

She really needs a nap. And that fucking pink phone to stop ringing.

“It’s a really nice ass.”

Beth scoffs at that—this is _nice_ , familiar, even. This is normal and she craves it.

“Tell you what, since I’m the asshole.”

“This can’t be real, you’re the one apologizing?”

“Excuse me? I totally apologize to you when I’m wrong. I’m just rarely wrong,” Beth laughs.

“Yeah, yeah—so how are you going to make it up to me, Childs?”

“Well, Dierden, I’ll head up to that place in Scarborough you like and get some takeout. Then I’ll grab a six pack of beer for you and a bottle of wine for me. And _then_ if you’re _good_ , I’ll show you how nice my ass really is.”

Shit. Scarborough. Alison Hendrix, the soccer mom. Well, maybe she should just look into it and end this for real.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re on—see you tonight, babe.”

“Love you.”

She rakes a hand through her hair, pulling on the ends. The pink burner rings— _fuck, again?_ and she ignores it. But not before pulling out the address. The one that she’s written down in Scarborough, well, in Bailey Downs to be precise, and maps it. Five minutes from Remezzo.

She calls in the order and gives them a time before logging off her computer and filing away her paperwork.  


Time to resolve this once and for all.

Beth drives down the street, rolling her Jaguar into the subdivision and somewhere amongst the McMansions and three car garages her daring leaves her. Her Remezzo’s order is still fifteen minutes away from pickup, but this just seems _stupid_ and it could get her _fired_. It’s not like the thing with Sarah Manning where there was an actual reason for her to be there. This is some chick from the suburbs with a clean record and a pretty fucking boring life. There is no reason for her to be here.

“What the fuck am I doing?”

She eyes the house and compares the address to her notes and frowns. This is not happening, not today. She loops the car through the cul-de-sac and back toward the restaurant and ignores that her hands are shaking.

When she figures out who is in on this, she will shoot them. It’s at that point.

“Food. Paul. Revenge.” 

It takes a couple minutes, but by the time she’s in the restaurant, waiting for their dinner, Beth’s breath comes back to normal. 

“Alison?” A blonde woman asks as she steps forward with her equally blond husband or boyfriend. It’s like they’re suburb Barbie and Ken and this is some horror show.

Did she just call her _Alison_?

“Oh hey Hendrix!”

Jesus fucking—shit. Beth bites her lip to calm herself. They could just look alike—but then hadn’t Jess from Scarborough said she looked like some girl named Ali-- _shit._

Maybe this isn’t a fucking prank.

“I’m sorry?”

“Didn’t I just see you earlier? What’d you do to your hair? Why aren’t you at _skating practice_?” Holy shit this broad is annoying—is this what they do in the suburbs? Get all up in each other’s business?

“Ma’am, I think you have me confused with someone else.” Beth says finally and looks at her with what she hopes is her cop face—the blank expression she saves for criminals when they’re about to be put under arrest.

The blonde’s face flushes and a hand flies to her face. Well, at least this is going well. It seems cloning or twin sisters separated at birth isn’t something that Trophy Wife Barbie is going to run with _thank god_. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I just—you look like my neighbor!”

“It’s ok. I get that a lot; I have one of those faces.” Beth jokes awkwardly and dumb and dumber bob their heads along. “I’m Beth. My boyfriend loves this place, so I thought I’d get takeout.”

“Ainsley. And this is my husband, Chad.” Of course he is and she probably doesn’t put out much—that’s why he’s been checking out the barely legal wait staff with the low cut tops every time he thinks Ainsley isn’t looking. Typical.

She notices a waitress who is carrying two brown paper bags and exhales. Well, thank god for small miracles, at least.

“And there’s my dinner! Nice to meet you, have a good night.” Beth smiles and waves at them before turning her attentions to the waitress. She takes her food in her hands and gives the girl a big tip for her efforts. You can’t put a price on helping someone out of an awkward fucking situation.

Like realizing you’re probably a clone. 

Crap.

###

The next time the burner rings, Beth answers immediately. Paul is away on business and this has been clawing at her for a solid week. She’s spent more time at the fucking Bed, Bath, and Beyond than she’d admit to anyone, hoping that she’d somehow run into the mysterious Alison Hendrix.

No dice.

“Beth. Beth, please. Aryanna she is in trouble.”

“Aryanna?”

“Scheiss kanadische!”

Beth rolls the words around her brain, trying to remember all the German that she’d learned in that one semester of it back in college. _Back before you were involved in any of this_ , she thinks. It all comes back piecemeal but she can make out the general gist of the message.

Katja has no time for her bullshit. Of course, it stands to reason that Katja _does_ have time for it, considering she calls her at all hours hoping she’ll answer, but, whatever.

“Excuse me?”

“Aryanna. One of us. She is in trouble.”

“What do you want me to do about it? Get on a fucking plane?”

“You have resources.”

This is ridiculous. This woman has absolutely no idea how little authority local cops even have. 

“I’m a homicide detective from Canada, not CSIS. I don’t even know if I believe you—“

“Again with this, Beth?”

Yes, again with this. Just because it seems more plausible than it did a couple days ago doesn’t mean it’s the truth. Well, maybe—maybe if she just sees her it will make sense. And if it’s all bullshit there’s no risk involved like there would be if she made up some charges to confirm it.

God, why didn’t she think of this earlier? Jackass.

“Do you do Skype over there?”

“Yes,” Katja answers.

“Okay. Can you Skype me? I’m sorry—I just, I need to see it.”

“Ah. My face, yes?” Katja answers, finally grasping what she is trying desperately to say despite the lack of words to say it.

“Yes,” Beth confirms.

“Do you want the others?”

The others? She’s made contact with some of the other faces on the milk carton, then. Shit.

“Aryanna is eager—“

“No. I don’t, I don’t know if I can help her,” Beth sighs. She isn’t sure what she wants, but she knows that the first introduction into this shouldn’t be staring into the eyes of some woman who is looking at her like a lifeline.

“Fine. Janika then? Her English is good.” Katja asks and Beth mulls it over. Does she want another one of them on the line—if she’s being a _cop_ yes, absolutely, but does she _Elizabeth Childs_ want two of these people at the same time. “There is another, Danielle, but she does not like to be involved.”

“Ok.” Beth says in an effort to stall, she isn’t sure what she wants—it’s going to be a game time decision. But then again, with two girls it’s even more likely. Might as well dive in head first at this point.

“Yeah, fuck it. You and Janika.”

“I will need a few hours.”

“Fine,” Beth agrees before she can change her mind. “But Katja?”

“Yes?”

“I really don’t think I can be much help.”

“You do not know this, Beth.” Katja argues and hangs up the phone. “We will use the Skype in two hours.”

Well, at least she’ll have answers in a few hours. And then she can plan what the hell she’s going to do next. But for now, Beth simply heads to the fridge and opens a beer. She’ll probably need a few more by the end of the night.

###

She falls into a routine—they skype once a month on Saturdays, because it’s easier and because Paul is usually out with his buddies doing whatever it is that men do. It used to be her time to clean the house top to bottom, everything in its right place, but now it’s her time to be with her clones.

Beth doesn’t mind it—it’s all part of a routine still, so she can handle this. Katja is a calming presence, while Janika is hotheaded and stubborn. Aryanna, who still thinks she is in danger, but Beth thinks she might just be paranoid, joins them regularly. 

Danielle had checked in once to say hello, but mostly looked uncomfortable. Beth understands Danielle the most—this isn’t comfortable, but she was _trying_ to make sense of it. If it makes sense, she can control it. The other three girls don’t seem to see it that way.

However, one Tuesday night in April, everything changes.

“Babe, I think that’s your phone,” Paul mutters and rolls back over in bed. Shit—it _is_ her phone and not the one she expects. Instead of police business it is clone business and that means something terrible has happened.

She sneaks out of the bed and goes to grab it, along with her laptop, shuttering the door behind her. Paul can’t know about this part of her life—they’ve always kept some secrets, viewed it as healthy, but she’s not even sure how she could let that one drop.

“Beth. Beth,” Katja breaths, her voice panicked. 

“It’s the middle of the night.” Beth grumbles, still only somewhat awake.

“Aryanna is dead.”

Beth bites her lip and forces herself not to cry. She’d known this was possible—everyone dies, she sees death and crime every day—but this is different. Aryanna had been so afraid, but she was eager to learn, to fight, so this feels like a punch in the gut.

“Shit. How?”

“A sniper. One bullet.”

“The same as the Russian,” Beth mutters. “I just—I thought she was crazy. You know?”

“We all did. There was nothing for months.”

“Fuck. I didn’t see it. I’m a detective and I didn’t see it. I tried with the safety stuff, but—“

“You did what you could, Beth. She survived a lot longer—“

“I didn’t do anything,” Beth snaps. She doesn’t need Katja’s pity. Beth is a police officer, she’s supposed to serve and protect. “Fuck.”

“Janika and I—we think we should hide.”

“What? Hide where? Together?” 

“Yes, with Danielle,” Katja clarifies. “She does not think this is wise. This is why I called you.”

“That’s a bad plan,” Beth says automatically. “Let me turn on the laptop. Gimme a sec.”

Beth flips on the laptop and accepts the invitation to Skype immediately. She failed Aryanna; she will not fail these women.

“You can’t hide together.” Beth says before any of them can say a word. She doesn’t have time for pleasantries, or her tears, she needs to function

“You have an ocean between you and this madman,” Janika snaps, irate. “Don’t tell me this is a bad idea.”

“It is a bad idea,” a French woman sighs. “She is police, listen, Janika.”

“What do you care? You barely involve yourself in this—“

“Aryanna was _mon ami_ —my friend.”

“And what am I? What is Katja?”

“Non—it is not that,” Danielle whispers, visibly crying on the other end of the computer. “Aryanna makes this more immediate, oui?”

“Stop fighting or I’m hanging up! This is serious!”

“Please," Katja interrupts. Ever the peace maker.

“This has all of us—how do you phrase it? On edge, ja?” Janika adds; her voice calmer than it’d been a moment ago. Beth still doesn’t understand how so many women with her DNA were so different from one another. “Please, explain.”

“You don’t want to be in the same place. I know that you think there’s some safety in numbers, but you’re a bigger target,” Beth explains. If they’re together, if this murderer finds them, she can take out the three of them in one shot. Being spread out gives them time—time to live, time to get information. 

“This makes sense. I still do not like it,” Katja responds. 

“There is no proof they know about us,” Janika argues. She always has to be contrary. Beth usually appreciates this, but now, with Aryanna dead, her patience is wearing thin.

It doesn’t help that it’s late at night and she’s drained. She still hasn’t mourned Aryanna. She can’t—not to these women. She is the strong one, the safe one, she must keep it together.

“Oui. They would.”

“Why?”

“I did a googling,” Danielle begins. A googling? Really? “Svetlana and Aryanna are not the only deaths. There are two others—a Greek, Eleni Kyrgiakos, and a Serbian, Branka Petrović.”

“Scheiße!” Both Katja and Janika say at the same time—Katja whispers it while Janika screams it, but the message is the same. Beth wonders if they’ve met in person. They certainly seem close, closer than the others, and Austria and Germany are not terribly far apart, when you think about it.

“They are targeting us,” Danielle states, matter of fact. The French woman has little time for dramatics, Beth’s noticed, and she wants this all resolved as quickly as possible.

“What if it is our makers, ja?” Janika rushes out, paranoid. “They have grown tired and are killing us.”

“That doesn’t make sense. The kind of money involved in…in this, they wouldn’t waste their investment,” Beth argues, trying to stay calm. She’s breathing heavily and is thankful that Paul is a heavy sleeper.

She needs to stop this. She needs to talk to the police shrink, get something stronger for the anxiety.

“I do not think it is scientists,” Katja agrees. “Murder is too messy. They want things clinical, clean.”

Beth finds herself nodding her head. Katja has a point—a sniper doesn’t fit the profile of a bunch of scientists killing off subjects. If they’re being watched, it’s probably by doctors—they could kill them with an inoculation. Blame it on a faulty batch.

God when had she become so morbid?

“The articles about the deaths. They say something about religion. I do not understand, but I can send—“

“Send them, Danielle,” Beth states before she can be interrupted. “But for now, you need to stay calm. Look to see if anyone is trying to follow you, integrate themselves into your lives. But otherwise act as if nothing has happened.”

“Something has happened,” Janika snaps. “Aryanna is _dead_.”

“Yes and you can mourn her, _privately_. But if you act like something is wrong, whoever is doing this might find you quicker,” Beth states. It’s common sense to lie in wait, to gather information.

“Fine,” Janika grits out, visibly upset. “Normal.”

“Yes.”

“We should talk more often, non?” Danielle suggests. “Make sure we are alive.”

“Yes. Every week. I have to go, but stay safe—“

Beth doesn’t wait to hear from the others before she shuts the laptop. She shoves her fist into her mouth to stop the sob that’s been building up in her throat from escaping. She slides herself down the wall and onto the floor, her body shaking under the weight of Aryanna’s death.

These women, these _clones_ , they’re real; and they’re dying.

After her tears have left her dry, red, and raw Beth picks herself up from the ground and grabs a purse, popping a Xanax and chasing it with the bottle of whiskey they keep in the kitchen. Beth grasps the counter and exhales, trying to not to wake Paul.

Beth tiptoes back into the office and shuts the door. She lets the meds and the liquor numb her before wiping away her tears. Pulling up her web browser, Beth types in Alison Hendrix’s name and address and gets her number. Beth sketches some details of a fake identity theft case and exhales—it will do. The sun rises on the horizon and she steels herself before she can think better of it. She punches in the number and a women picks up.

“Hello, Alison Hendrix? My name is Detective Elizabeth Childs and I need to speak with you regarding a case of mistaken identity.”

There is no turning back now. Beth is _committed_.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Beth and I feel like while there are some fics that deal a lot with her meeting and interacting with Cosima and Ali, there isn't a lot of stuff about life before Alison and Cosima were in it, so I wanted to play with that. And also kind of explore what it might be like to live so close to 2 clones (Sarah & Alison) while not knowing that you are y'know a clone. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


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